


Eat Your Words

by Rosetta (ARollingStone), Stuffy (HarveyDangerfield)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Belly Kink, Bottom Ford, Bottom Stan, Hand Jobs, M/M, Stuffing, Top Stan, top ford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 15:17:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20548304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARollingStone/pseuds/Rosetta, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyDangerfield/pseuds/Stuffy
Summary: When Ford claims that he learned how to eat a lot very quickly during his time away from home, Stan goads him into proving it





	Eat Your Words

It's been a week since they've seen daylight, with nothing of an exaggeration to the claim. They'd been researching in a narrow cavern, when the ceiling had caved in around them--and while usually, Stan's superior strength might have been enough for them to get out of a sticky situation, events had transpired which had left him weakened, and it'd taken some time before he was able to regain his strength and punch a path out into the sunlight.   
  
In the cavern, there'd been no food or water, apart from the rations they'd brought with them, so in the last couple of days, they'd had to be sparing with the supplies, eating only when absolutely necessary and drinking sparsely. In part, a reason why it had taken Stan so long to get up the energy and the drive to get them out, he'd just been too weakened by malnourishment to do the deed until he'd gotten a burst of adrenaline, courtesy of Ford no less.   
  
The first thing they'd done when they'd gotten back was shower all the dirt and grime off their bodies, and takes some time apart to just breathe in the space of being out in the open world again; but then the hunger had crept in, and Stan thought he'd die for sure if he didn't get 'real food' (as he'd put it) into his body, ASAP so he'd taken the liberty of ordering an obscene amount of take out for the two of them to share.   
  
And they'd eaten like kings.   
  
Stan stuffed himself stupid on all sorts of food, mostly Southeast Asian in nature, considering their current station--he'd eaten until he had to pop the button on his jeans and then ate more when he felt empty with relief, until his belly had swollen out good and hard, though not nearly at his limit. It's when he's belching up grains of rice that he realizes he should probably stop, so he just eases back in his creaking chair, at the table in the boat's kitchen, and just relaxes with his drink--a fresh rum and coke--and he revels in the familiar buzz in his guts as his cock wakes up and begs to be touched.   
  
But he doesn't, not now. Instead, he looks over at Ford, who seems to have contented himself with a single plate of food, and he chides, "Whaddaya doin', Sixer? We just got outta hell and you're eatin' like ya got calories to count. C'mon, we didn't eat for a week, and you're worried about your waistline. Live a little."   
  
"Live like you?" Ford can't help but tease. Truthfully, he'd mostly been distracted by the sight of Stan eating like he had something to prove, a sight that always drove him near to madness with lust. And seeing him now, laid back on the couch in their control room with his stomach rising and falling like a globe with his brother's every breath makes his belly knot up with pleasure.  
  
"Maybe just for a day." Stan burps deeply and runs a hand down the side of his belly. Pleasantly full, he could eat more very easily, but he decides he'd like to do more with the rest of his night than lie around, beached on his back. "C'mon, why don't ya have a second plate? I got your favorite."   
  
"I know you did, thank you," Ford gestures to the container of beef curry Stan had gotten for him, which is... still half full. Stan had been so absorbed in his own eating that he's only just now taking stock of what Ford chose to eat, and it looks like mostly curry, a little bit of steamed vegetables, some plain white rice, and half a bottle of kombucha. Not exactly Stan's idea of a thrilling meal.  
  
The couch springs groan under Stan as he sits forward, his belly squashed, and he looks everything over, "Hey, what gives? Ya hardly ate anything." he sets Ford with a glare. "I know you can eat more than that. What's your deal? Not feelin' good?"   
  
"I just don't need anymore," Ford explains, his ears flushing a bit pink under the scrutiny. "I'm not hungry anymore. Going without food for a long time doesn't mean your capacity increases all at once afterwards. The stomach only needs as much as it needs regardless of how long it's been between meals. Besides, in my experience, overeating after a long period of hunger can upset the stomach. Though not yours, evidently..." he trails off, his eyes slipping back down to Stan's belly.  
  
"Yeah well, I got a gut of steel." Stan grunts, "But don't think you can distract me with compliments--much as I like 'em--I bet you're just too full to eat anymore." He sits back and nods to himself, content to leave it at that.   
  
"Well... not technically," Ford clears his throat, glancing away. "I just don't want to push it when I don't absolutely have to. It used to be in the Otherworld that I'd go weeks sometimes between meals before I found something substantial to eat. Sometimes it would be more food than a person would ever need in one sitting, but I wouldn't know when my next meal was coming, so I'd eat it all anyway, as quickly as I could so I wouldn't lose it. My limits are... considerable, now. They were less when we were children playing around with food and pleasure, but these days --" he clears his throat, coughing into his fist as he looks down at the table. "Well, I don't need to eat that much, anymore. I'm not living from meal to meal."  
  
"I geddit." Stan says, shrugging his shoulders easily, and he glances at Ford, smirking. "You're chickenshit. Nothin' new there--you always was when we were kids. Can't have changed that much."   
  
Ford's expression hardens with confusion as his head snaps back up to look at Stan. "I _beg_ your pardon?"  
  
"You're too scared." Stan shrugs again. "Afraid you'll get fat like me, and ya can't have that--probably too scared to get an upset tummy too, ain't ya Sixer? You always did have a weak constitution. Not like me, I could eat a whole house and have room for dessert."   
  
"I don't have a _weak constitution,_" Ford protests. "I just told you I can eat like a snake if I have to."  
  
"Oh yeah, I bet!" Stan howls, lifting his drink to his lips for an extra-long sip, then scoffs. "You can eat like a snake, huh? Not as much as me--you're too small to eat that much. I bet you get two plates in and you gotta lie down for a nap."   
  
"I know what you're trying to do, Stanley," Ford's ears burn hot. He wants to say 'it's not going to work' but honestly he can already feel his need to prove himself creeping up to the surface.  
  
"Oh? You know what I'm tryin' to do? Well at least ya know somethin', cuz ya sure as hell don't know how to eat!" Stan roars with laughter.   
  
"I know how to eat!" Ford's voice raises a little bit over the din of Stan's laughter. "I just don't need to--" his stomach burns with indignation and pride in tandem, and the thought center of his brain reminds him that it's been a week since a proper meal, that his strict diet wouldn't be ruined by one overlarge meal even if that wasn't true-- but he still tries to resist the goading. A matter of principle, honestly.  
  
"It's okay, Sixer. Ya never did have a big appetite." Stan eyes him up and down, like he's trying to gauge something, probably Ford's resolve if the twinkle in his eye is anything to go by. He reaches down between his legs and gropes his hard cock, running his thumb over the clothed tip and sighs.   
  
"I was always the bigger man."   
  
Ford growls and sits up abruptly. "I'll show you bigger--" he mutters, his words trailing off as he slots himself into Stan's lap, preventing him from touching himself any further. "You have no idea what I'm capable of, Stanley. I'm not the same little boy who'd get squeamish after a second slice of cake anymore."  
  
Stan grabs Ford around the waist and bends down to bury his nose in his hair, and he growls playfully, "No? Prove it. Put that mouth to work."   
  
Ford grunts in frustration. Stan's goading him, and he knows he's falling for it hook, line and sinker. He knows he probably shouldn't... but he doesn't have any better reason not to than _probably shouldn't_ and that's really all he needs.   
  
Twisting backwards, he drags the coffee table laden with food closer, and grabs the container of beef curry he'd left half of behind, yanking it up to his face along with a plastic spoon. "I'm going to make you eat your words, Stanley Pines," he says, before opening his mouth and getting to work. At least he has the flavor of the food going for him, in the past when he'd had to eat massive quantities very quickly, it'd been food that was less than appetizing, just for the sake of survival-- but this. At least this is a feast worth devouring.  
  
The food barely skirts across his tongue before he's swallowing it down, shoveling it right to the back of his throat and gulping it down so fast he doesn't even have to pause to breathe in the middle, the carton is emptied too swiftly to even need to. He drops it to the ground, joining the graveyard of containers Stan had emptied, and belches up the air he'd swallowed down alongside the food. All told, it took him less than 30 seconds to empty that container.   
  
"Happy?" he grunts, his hips shifting in Stan's lap.  
  
"Mm, not yet I'm not. More." Stan grunts, his big paws slipping under Ford's turtleneck, and he kisses down his brother's jaw, eager to see him fill up. "C'mon, there's so much here--eat until it's gone. Eat until ya can't. I want you big, babe. Show me what you can do."   
  
Pride thrums under Ford's skin when Stan's hands roam over his body, and he shivers as Stan's big warm paw roams over his flat stomach. He felt that flicker of fullness before when he'd stopped eating the first time, before he even finished the container. Normally his ability to eat so much hinges on being able to beat the clock before his stomach can signal his brain that he's full-- could he even do it like this?  
  
Oh, who is he kidding. Of course he can. He's Stanford fucking Pines.   
  
Twisting around again, he grabs a paper-wrapped sandwich and bites into it. It's vietnamese, that much he can tell immediately by the pickled onions and spicy chicken, and it's frankly delicious-- though he doesn't really give himself the time to savor it. He tears huge bites from the sandwich, barely chewing them before swallowing them down in chunks large enough that he can feel his stomach walls pressing out slightly with every new addition. He devours the whole thing in under a minute and grabs his half-full kombucha in order to wash it down and re-wet his throat that had been scratched dry by the barely-chewed bread. But even after that's empty he doesn't slow down, he reaches for a container of coconut chicken soup and tips it back, gulping at it like he's never eaten before in his life, his throat bobbing as he slurps it down in just a few seconds, noodles and all.   
  
He can feel a bit of pressure in his stomach now, but that only thrills him. To be able to eat like this in an environment where he's doing it for fun rather than survival adds a whole new element to the ballgame. His cock wakes up with an interested throb as he drops that container and grabs the next, an eggplant custard that he shovels into his mouth and gives the same treatment as the rest, swallowing down huge mouthfuls of the sweet mixture before he has a chance to suffer any consequences. Like riding a bike, it seems.  
  
Stan mutters words of awe and praise, his paws rucking up Ford's shirt to feel the slight swell already there. He's gulping down thick, unchewed mouthfuls, very much like a snake, as he'd boasted of before. All of Stan's goading had gotten to him, and really had been that easy; but he knows his brother well, and Ford is nothing if not prideful, not that Stan has much room to talk--he has a painting of himself in every room in the house. Ford's capable and he's been through hell and back to get that way, might as well flaunt it.   
  
He slurps down Pad Thai like it's nothing, eating noodles whole without choking, in a direct line from mouth to stomach. Vegetables are casualties along the way, hardly chewed and gulped back like he's drinking them--Stan does nothing but encourage, tipping the containers toward Ford's mouth and gathering others close, keeping one hand pinned to his belly to feel the swell of it under his fingers.   
  
Containers are dropped so quickly that even Ford is impressed with himself as he practically unhinges his jaw to swallow down a plate of drunken tofu noodles, followed by several crispy egg rolls that go down in just a couple bites each. He can feel the pressure increasing in his stomach with every bite, a sensation he regards with pleasure and pride instead of the hopeful fear that he'd be able to finish that he used to come to these situations with in spades. For once there's no finish line to reach or his very life could be on the line-- there's nothing but pleasure fuzzing out his brain.   
  
Fried rice is swallowed down along with a sticky sweet sauce that nearly transforms the dish into a custard, and then an entire rainbow roll of sushi-- not one piece of which he chews. He feels every mouthful hit his stomach and press out against the already overtaxed walls, his belly bulging out to make room for his swiftly growing stomach as he unloads a large bowl of coconut milk pudding down his throat like he's trying to break a record. He feels his stomach inflating rapidly, the sensation shooting straight to his cock as he picks a whole fish clean in seconds, his face and hands slippery with grease when he chases it with a corn salsa and heavy custard tart.   
  
There's no stopping him, even as he feels his stomach start to encroach on his lungs, pressing up into his breathing space. He's visibly stuffed now, and in just a matter of a few minutes-- it's happened so quickly Stan can do nothing but watch.  
  
Truthfully? Stan feels a little useless, just made to sit there and watch, so he occupies himself with something else, of no use feeding his brother, he can get him off at least. He unbuttons Ford's fly and unzips his pants, his cock instantly filling out in a line that has his boxers tenting upward, out of the zipper--and Stan frees him, spits in his hand and wraps fingers firmly around Ford's prick, jerking him with swift motions while he kisses down his brother's neck and whispers in his ear, "Keep eatin', Ford. Don't stop now."   
  
Ford gives a wet little moan and nearly chokes on a lettuce-wrapped meatball before he has a chance to choke it down. His cock immediately jerks up in Stan's hand, leaking over his fingers, and Ford can only sit there and moan for a few frantic seconds as his brother jerks him off. The pleasure makes his eyes roll back for a moment, and his thighs tremble, but then he feels a little stich in his stomach and he knows he has to keep eating or the feeling of how full he is will catch up to him and he won't be able to continue.   
  
Moaning with every exhale, he finishes off the platter of meatballs (a dozen in total) and switches gears to a shrimp salad, every bite of which feels like blissful torture going down and joining the cramped quarters inside him. He can feel his lower belly really starting to round out in earnest as well as his stomach runs out of room to expand upwards and starts filling out down instead, squishing the rest of his insides out of the way to make room for the organ swiftly filling like a water balloon attached to a tap.   
  
Giving his exhausted jaw a break from chewing, he tips back a large steaming cup of pho, swallowing down mouthfuls so big they make his cheeks bulge and his stomach ache when they hit his stomach. His throat feels stretched and raw and loose, and he follows that up with mango sweet rice balls that he doesn't even chew, each one going down whole like a snake having at it with a nest of eggs. The eggs aren't enough for this hungry snake however, he chases it down with the bird too, devouring an entire grilled cornish hen in a matter of a couple minutes, all the while moaning desperately as Stan strokes his cock.  
  
His brother encourages him to eat a big, fresh papaya salad, with crunchy textures and a spicy, salty aftertaste, but it's so juicy and fresh that it feels like sweet relief after literally a whole chicken. Then, he passes up a container of pancit with roast duck, the skin of which is a crunchy, salty treat juxtaposed with the creamy, fatty flavor of duck which goes down rich and leaves Ford's lips stained with grease, which Stanley promptly kisses away.   
  
And while his brother eats, Stan keeps one hand busy with circling his growing belly, rubbing away stitches and pains wherever they crop up so that all Ford can feel is the hot buzz of being overfull--it makes him feel drunk, in a way, dizzy with it and the slick glide of Stanley's fingers over his achey prick, his brother keen to get him off at least twice before this is all over.   
  
"You're big, but you're not big enough." Stan growls into his ear. "More. Keep eating. You're not done yet, look at you. You're a machine, Sixer--keep eatin'. Eat it all."   
  
Ford can feel his belly just starting to protest, but he steamrolls that silly little reflex by chewing down asparagus and rice, swallowing down finger-sized seaweed rolled fish whole, and chugging down another cup of hot vegetable soup. His thighs are really shaking now with the pleasure of being stroked so thoroughly, his cock weeping over Stan's fingers until the glide is pristinely slick, the pleasure only increasing every time Ford takes a breath and feels how stuffed absolutely full he is.   
  
But Stan's right, he's not big enough yet, not while there's still more food to be eaten and more room to grow. He gulps down a thick squash soup, his stomach bulging out obscenely as he drains the container down his throat. He doesn't even bother with utensils when it comes to a huge filet of red snapper, he just picks it up with his hands and bites into the flaky fish wholesale, swallowing bites down so big they hurt his throat. His cock jerks and aches in Stan's hand, every swallow making the pressure and pleasure increase mightily.  
  
It's a goldmine when he finds a container of at least 40 shrimp and crab rolls wrapped in tiny, clear wonton wrappers, and he pops them each like popcorn, swallowing them without even applying teeth, his throat is so slack. Each one hits his stomach like a rock, heavy and full already and only increasingly so as he finishes off ten of them, and then fifteen-- twenty, and thirty-- his stomach bulges out hard and full-- thirty five and his cock spurts in Stan's hand-- and finally forty of them, each as big as a thumb and each joining the mass in Ford's stomach like he hadn't eaten a thing. He moans helplessly as his cock spurts again, and he grabs Stan by the wrist to slow his stroking, unwilling to cum before he's finished, lest he lose his nerve to continue.  
  
"What do you need?" Stan grunts. "Tell me, and it's yours."   
  
His hand stills on Ford's cock before releasing it completely, and he drags both hands up his glutted belly--it's more food than he's ever seen anyone eat, maybe even including himself. He'd say it were unrealistic, or impossible, if he hadn't just witnesssed it himself, and frankly Stan's maddened with lust now, finding it hard to contain himself, his cock aching for attention, hard as nails and throbbing against Ford's ass.   
  
"Not done," Ford gasps, before he loses his nerve completely. "More. Give me more."  
  
Stan ferries him containers now so he doesn't have to move or twist between entrees, each of which constitute a dinner on their own, and he's eaten how many now? He's lost count. His stomach is obscene, rounding out sharply just under his ribs and all the way down to just over his cock, the curve so dramatic it barely looks real-- but Ford's still eating. His belly groans and churns as he gulps down a thick rice stew, every heavy bite hitting him with a cramp-- but he doesn't want to stop. It's intoxicating, being able to eat like this without having to worry about his glutted state making him vulnerable after.   
  
Catfish salad and glazed ribeye, lamb chops and potato cakes are all swallowed down, his engorged stomach so large now that Ford's back is bowed to make room for it, and when Stan looks, there's only three containers left. He's so close to actually finishing it all, a feat which Stan had regarded as too fictional to be an actual accomplishable challenge, but here they are. Ford is still eating with the same speed that he started with, bypassing his body's pleads with pure instinct. His stomach is rock hard as he devours a bowl of chicken and rice soup, his stomach churning with every deep gulp, and then he tears right into a set of fruit and chicken skewers with gusto-- and then the last dish is upon him.   
  
He can see the finish line, but looking at the heavy curry dish makes his stomach churn. "Stroke me again," he begs, and tips the bowl up to start spooning huge mouthfuls down his throat.  
"That, I can do." Stanley murmurs against his neck. "Keep eatin', I wanna get ya off when ya finish--you just got one thing left, you can do it."   
  
And with renewed eagerness, Stanley takes him in hand and jerks him again--this time, his hand is quick, the glide so slick it's filling the cabin with a loud, filthy squelch each time his fingers fly over him. His hand works expertly, a quick glide that makes Ford's whole body shake, but he keeps eating and Stan doesn't stop, stroking him from root to head, gathering slick from Ford's leaking pisshole to stroke down over the shaft, forming a firm, tight circle with his fingers for his brother to fuck into.   
  
Ford is so full his brain doesn't even produce thoughts in words anymore, just pictures for him to follow. He swallows down huge bites of curry, this last dish feels absolutely bottomless in volume he's so heavy already-- and frankly, it is one of the larger ones that were on the table, go figure. His stomach is taut and warm, the pressure inside absolutely dizzying, but still he swallows... and swallows... and swallows.   
  
Every bite presses out against his stomach, every bite settles hard in his gut, the organ pressing out so hard he's trembling. It looks like he's smuggling a watermelon under his skin the curve is so dramatic, but still he takes those last few bites of curry, breathing out moaning through his nose between every one. When finally his spoon scrapes the bottom, he drops it to the floor with a triumphant whine-- and just a second later, when he shifts just right, the incredible load in his stomach presses down against his gut and he shoots off with a yelp of pleasure, right across Stan's own belly.   
  
Alltogether, it's been something like twenty minutes, and he'd just devoured enough food to feed 12 men or more, all of which has been crammed into his now drum-tight belly, heavy and round and so tight all Ford can do is wheeze as he unloads across his brother's stomach.  
  
Stan jerks him until he's oversensitive and shaking and desperately in need of a lie down, so he carefully does just that, easing Ford back onto the couch so he's lying flat on his back, without a lot of strain on his belly, which is domed out heavy and full--bigger than Stan's ever seen it, but he doesn't have much of a measuring stick, considering he hasn't seen his brother indulge since they were kids, and back then his capacity had been a bit sad. Now, though, he certainly has proven him wrong.   
  
Wiping cum off of Ford's belly, Stanley tugs his pants down so they aren't constricting him anymore, and just rubs both big, warm paws over his belly, smiling reverently at his brother, both proud and awed by the feat he'd just performed. "That was really somethin', sweetheart. Ya did it."   
  
"Fuck me," Ford begs without hesitation, his gorged belly rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. "Fuck me, Stanley, please, please fuck me-- please, I need you, I need you--"  
  
"Okay." Stan murmurs, then more inistently, "_Okay._ Just relax, take a few deep breaths, everything's alright--I'm gonna take care of you."   
  
He can tell Ford is frantic, though he isn't sure if it's panic that's setting in, or if he's just _that_ desperate to have something inside of him--either way, it's going to take a bit to prep him. But Stan has that down to a science, and with a little lube from the travel bottle in his pocket, he slides two fingers in and stretches him out nice and soft before finding a position on the couch that isn't completely unbearable for his knees.   
  
Stan's heavy cock falls out onto Ford's belly with a thump. He runs both hands up, then down, Ford's tummy and lets him feel the weight of his cock against his skin for a few moments before he can see his brother's franticness returning, so Stanley takes his cock and presses the thick head right inside and thrusts, filling Ford to the brim in a different way now, that has them both breathless and needy.   
  
Ford's mouth drops open when Stan pushes inside, and then his eyes roll back and he arches up, his stomach bulging upwards in a hard curve. "Stan-- ley!" he chokes out. He feels absolutely raw, completely overcome with sensation from all ends. His head feels cottony, his eyes heavy, his ass split wide open and stroked from the inside marvelously, and the pressure in his stomach feels unconquerably massive, like a single finger's pressure from the outside will make him split right up the seams.   
  
"Stanley!" he wheezes out, throwing his head to the side to hide his face in a pillow. "Oh god ohgodohgod-- pleaseplease_please_\--"  
  
He hooks Ford's legs over his arms and uses the leverage of them to pound the good sense out of him. Brows knit in concentration, he just focuses on getting Ford off--the drag of his cock fills him to the teeth, in the places where food hasn't reached, stuffing him full to the brim with every inch Stanley has to give, powered by the thrust of his hips, while Ford just wails into the open air without a care in the world for who might hear--it's their boat, why should they care?   
  
"Fuck." Stan growls, tightening his grip on Ford's legs, ramming hip-deep, his cock striking Ford's prostate like an anvil with each hard thrust. "How's that, Sixer? Fills ya up good, right? Well don't rest yet, sweetheart, I got more to give."   
  
Ford, who dropped like a rock the moment Stan pushed into him, is barely registering the words coming out of Stan's mouth. He hears the comforting rumble of his voice, but his entire awareness is absorbed into just two sensations: his aching stomach, and his aching ass. They ache in two distinct ways, and each one only adds to his pleasure as Stan jackhammers up into his guts.   
  
One of Ford's hands comes down to curl under his belly, as if he could somehow prevent the bouncing sensation in his rock-hard stomach. There's not an ounce of fat to jiggle, only the flat, firm plane of his stomach pushed out over a metric shit ton of food, all eaten far too quickly. He moans dumbly, his eyes rolled back and his mouth slack as his brother chisels pleasure into every inch of his body.  
  
"I want you to cum again, Sixer--I know you can hear me." Stan growls, and he fumbles for the bottle of lube, squeezes some into his hand, and abandons one of Ford's thighs for that aching prick between his legs, and in time with the ram of his cock, he strokes Ford with a mind to get him cumming again--he's determined to wring another two orgasms out of him, at the very least--a prize of a job well done, perhaps one part apology for being such an insufferable prick about goading him, too.   
  
The combined lunge of Stan's prick, and the roll of his stuffed belly joins the incredible glide of Stan's rough fingers over his prick, slicked by his own pre and a generous dollop of lube--he's stimulated from three angles, and quickly losing the ability to discern up from down--it's when Ford gets like this that Stan has to be very careful to read his body language, and pull back if he does something his brother doesn't like. They have a system, and they know each other well enough to tell.   
  
"Oh! OH!" Ford's voice breaks and goes hoarse and wheezy when Stan's hand wraps around his cock, and his other hand comes down to hold the top of his belly, framing the curve from both ends like he's trying to hold it down. The pleasure is unbelievable, it almost hurts it's so intense, and his pelvic floor does somersaults as pleasure rips through him like a hurricane. His thighs tremble jerkily around Stan's hips, his entire body twisting and writhing like he's trying to get away from the pleasure, while also fucking up and bucking down into Stan's hand and onto his cock respectively. His body is at war with whether it wants a break or wants more, but he's swiftly losing to the latter.  
  
"C'mon babe, I want you to blow your load all over that belly. You're so big--you're so fuckin' big. C'mon, c'mon sweetheart, cum for me."   
  
Stanley growls it, an order really, coming from him, in that ordered tone like he's commanding Ford to march into battle; and while he does, he impales him, cock spreading Ford wide an loose until he's spreading like butter, his body aching with it, but craving too; and Stan, likewise, needs the feeling that Ford's giving him. The smooth, sweet ripple of his hole pulling Stan to the deepest point, inviting him to fuck Ford mindless and numb, with nothing but fluff between his ears.   
  
Ford cums with a pitiful little whimper when bade, the voice high and tiny in his throat. It doesn't even come close to matching the all-out firestorm that goes off in his guts, fierce and powerful and quite frankly intimidating in scale. His entire body jerks and shakes with the pleasure, and he clutches his stomach like he's afraid it'll fall off if he doesn't hold it down. His mouth is wide open, his eyes crushed closed, but he barely makes a sound.   
  
Nevertheless, Stan can feel him cum, he can feel the way his ass tightens up like a vice, milking his brother's cock, inviting him to take his fill until he empties inside Ford and gives him just that last little bit of something he's craving.  
  
And he does--Stan can't hold back the tidal wave of absolute bliss that's unleashed when his brother's body tugs him down, flush with Ford's hips, and he unloads right inside, thick jets unleashed inside so abruptly that Stan braces himself on the couch so he doesn't fall over, right on top of poor Ford and his overstuffed belly. Stanley shouts with his orgasm, a sound that devolves into an animal growl until he's spent and sags heavily against the couch, still gut-deep in Ford, panting and trying to regain his composure.   
  
Ford is left trembling and whimpering under him as the cramps take him when the adrenaline starts to fade. His stomach burns with fullness, throbbing from his ribs down to his bladder (which has also started to protest) but he's too far gone to do anything more than stare blindly up at his brother and whine wordlessly for help. His heavy arms slide across his own stomach, too tired to be lifted, and grab onto Stan wherever they can reach without stretching, squeezing his love handle and his hand respectively.  
  
Stan can sense what Ford needs, even without words. Twins have that strange, telepathic link. He lowers his hands to Ford's belly, and sooths away cramps by running his big, warm paws over the skin that's so stretched it's hot to the touch and feels like elastic under Stan's fingers. He doesn't slip out yet, not wanting to jar Ford out of his bliss so he just murmurs sweet things under his breath for a bit before asking, "What do you need, Sixer?"   
  
"Bed," Ford whispers hoarsely, his eyes half-lidded as he looks up at his brother. "Bed... bed. Please. Sleep.... tired."  
  
"Alright, gimme a minute." Stanely grunts. He pulls out then, and wipes first himself down, then Ford with the kerchief in his pocket, with plans to give his brother a proper bath once he's napped some of his food off, then he hauls him up from the couch and heads down to the bunk with him.  
  
Despite being absolutely stuffed, Ford is really no heavier than when they'd begun--maybe five or ten pounds, but that's hardly a chore for Stan. He lies him down in their bed, and disappears for a moment or two before resurfacing with a warm, wet cloth to wipe Ford down more effectively. Then he strips him of his clothes, and gets him dressed in a nice, clean pair of briefs and pajama pants before bundling him up in a blanket, and crawling into bed behind him. Then, Stan curls up around him like a loyal dog and settles down for a long cuddle session, with plenty of soothing words, prepared to wait on Ford hand and foot.   
  
Ford is asleep for several hours, time during which his body gets to work on digesting. Stan can hardly sleep over the noise of Ford's belly rumbling and grumbling and squeaking and gurgling, it's so loud that even from under the blankets Stan can hear it. He only dozes lightly anyway, and wakes immediately when he feels Ford stir. There's no light coming in through the porthole windows, so he knows it's pretty late, but he follows dutifully after Ford anyway as he waddles into the bathroom with a sleepy whine. His belly is still extremely bloated, but not quite as drastically as before.   
  
Bypassing the toilet completely, Ford drops his pants and briefs and steps into the shower instead, turning on the hot spray and holding his cock in one hand, either unaware of Stan standing in the doorway or uncaring of the audience as he unleashes hell on the tile. Stan can see from where he stands that for once, Ford was the one who woke up with wood, probably from having the metric gallon of piss stored up in him while he was sleeping.  
  
Stan grumbles to himself as he watches his brother, cock in hand, as the strength of his piss stream battles with the shower for which can be the loudest. Stan's whole body goes rigid, including his prick, which tents out the front of his boxers at an extreme angle, and he swoons with dizziness from the sudden redirection of blood south as his whole belly clenches hotly, just watching Ford--the absolute look of relief on his face, the way his body goes gradually softer in posture as he leans into it. Stan breathes out of his nose heavily and decides he's had enough standing around, so he strips down and gets into the shower behind Ford, immediately tugging his ass flush with his body, Stan's cock slotting between his thighs naturally.   
  
He paws at Ford's belly and chest, like he's aching to have him closer and mutters in his ear, "Really had to go, huh?"   
  
"I did," Ford croaks, a bubble in his throat making his voice come out funny, so he clears it with a soft cough as the stream finally lets up into dribbles, and then stops completely. He wipes his hand on his thigh and then leans back against Stan's chest with a groan of pleasure, outmatched only by the unholy roar that comes from his stomach when it suddenly gains room to relax and expand without his burgeoning bladder in the way.  
  
"Sorry I pushed ya so hard." Stan grumbles, kissing up his shoulder and neck. "Ya know I was only teasin' right? About everything I said."   
  
"I know," Ford tips his head away to give Stan more room to lavish kisses over his throat. "Still... it was nice to prove you wrong. I believe I said something about making you eat your words?"  
  
"Mm?" Stan asks without words, only half listening as he runs his big paws over Ford's heavy tummy and nuzzles into his neck like a kitten seeking warmth.   
  
"As it happens, I believe for the night my cock's named _Your Words_," Ford teases with a smug little smirk. "Get eating."  
  
Stan chuckles, "Feelin' like bein' on top for once, huh? Guess I earned that." and he sits down on the little bench, and tugs his brother forward by the hips, then bends his head to take the head of Ford's cock against his tongue--he glides slick against the organ, and Stan can taste the lingering sharpness of piss on just the tip, which he pays no heed to as he slides the shaft back to his throat and gulps on it, closing his mouth around Ford's cock, his tongue flickering over the vein. He hums in the back of his throat, and looks up at Ford for just a moment, then pulls back and plunges down again, taking him in a rythm whereby he bobs his head, wasting no time.   
  
And while he busies himself sucking, Stanley cups Ford's balls in hand and presses his fingers under the base of them, massaging Ford's prostate deep through his skin, rolling his brother's heavy sac between his fingers gently, massaging them with loving attention to detail while he slurps on his cock.   
  
"Oh-- oh fuck--" Ford braces one hand on the wall over Stan's head, and the other hand he rakes into his brother's wet hair, his thighs already starting to tremble slightly as the muscles lock up. Pleasure immediately blooms across his skin, hot and radiating out from his groin into his stomach and down his legs. Stan has such a gift with sucking cock, Ford is always consistently surprised by how competently Stan is able to suck him down and take him apart. "Don't stop," he orders softly, his head tipping back as he grips Stan's wet hair by the roots and starts to thrust his hips into his mouth.  
  
Stan chokes in the back of his throat as Ford hits his tonsils, but he relaxes the muscles, and finds a pace in the way Ford's hips stutter up, and he swallows him down, tongue finding every vein and curve of his cock while his big, warm hands work over his balls and his taint, down between his legs, grazing against his hole until Stan tires of toying with him; then he slips two water-slick fingers inside and fucks him achingly slow where Ford is still slack and raw from their fuck session earlier.   
  
Ford's hand on the wall drops down to his elbow, and he rests his forehead against his arm as he grinds down the back of Stan's throat with a gusty moan. The fingers probing against his prostate make his legs tremble, but he locks his knees to stay upright long enough to chase his bliss down Stan's throat.   
  
"Oh god, Stanley--" he grunts, gritting his teeth as his pleasantly sore ass flexes around his brother's fingers. "The _noises_ you make are _obscene_."  
  
"Agh yeah, yeah..." Stan groans nonsensically as he comes up for air again, dragging his tongue in a filthy stroke up the underside of his lover's cock. Then he swallows him down, at the same time, thrusting his fingers into Ford to the knuckle, massaging him from the inside out while his throat tickles at the head of his cock, and his cheeks gulp and flutter in slippery motions over his skin.  
  
Ford's stomach clenches up hard and his hips stutter, but he digs his hand hard into Stan's hair and tugs back when he feels himself coming up too close to his release, too fast. When Stan pulls back, his lips shiny and red and his fingers still probing, he watches Ford's expression darken with lust.   
  
"Stand up, Stanley," he orders. "I want to fuck you."  
  
Stan answers with a grunt. He stands up, and turns so he can stand against the wall of the shower, putting one foot up on the edge of the bench, he spreads himself wide for Ford with one hand, and glances over his shoulder, "C'mere sweetheart. I want to feel ya up against me."  
  
Ford is on him in an instant, his bloated stomach fitting into the curve of Stan's back as he reaches around with one hand to tug idly on his cock, and with the other he probes fingers against Stan's hole. Stan isn't nearly as practiced when it comes to taking it, and both of their appetites are typically assuaged in the opposite configuration, but sometimes a man just gets hungry.   
  
His middle finger breaches Stan and arches up into him as he mouths and bites along his brother's neck and shoulder, pulling on his cock with long, languid strokes not designed to get him off, but rather to keep him right on the edge as Ford opens him up from behind.   
  
"Will you be able to keep standing?" Ford says it almost in a tease, nipping and tugging on Stan's earlobe. "I know your legs always turn to putty when I fuck you."  
  
"I think I can manage." Stan groans, tipping his head forward onto the slick tile wall. He breathes in through his nose, his cock swelling harder in Ford's grip, silky and aching after a few passes of his fingers. If Ford didn't know Stan so well, he might have thought those grunts were done in pain, but he can feel his body opening up gradually. "You feel good back there. I can feel your tummy on my back."  
  
"Who's fault is that?" Ford chides, his teeth finding Stan's shoulder. "Teasing me like you did, goading me like that. You _wanted_ this to happen."  
  
Using just water, Ford opens him up for a second finger, probing it inside to join the first and stretching Stan out with care. He knows Stan doesn't like it as rough as he does, he doesn't appreciate the same level of pain that Ford likes to be sprinkled in when he's receiving. He takes extra care to make sure he doesn't open Stan too fast or too hard, but the delicate balance is struck with just hard enough, his knuckles grinding up against his brother's perineum.   
  
Stan groans, "I did... I love watchin' you let go. Makes me...agh fuck...I just love watchin' ya lose it. I dunno." He widens his stance, giving Ford better access, and reaches around behind him to grip Ford by the hip, tugging him tight against him so he can feel his body right up against him, with no air between them. "Fuck... you really demolished it."  
  
"And don't you ever forget it," Ford growls in his ear, striking Stan's prostate with brutal precision.   
  
He feels a belch rumble up his throat and doesn't even try to hide it, and he lets it out against the back of Stan's shoulder with a low groan, his stomach rumbling loudly and violently against Stan's back in the process. Ford's cock gives a twitch at the sensation, much the same way Stan's does in his hand.   
  
Fingers are removed and his cock lined up instead, and with a groan Ford grinds up into Stan in one long, measured thrust. His brother's walls go soft and part for him eagerly, and his hips meet flush with Stan's ass where he stops for a moment to catch his breath before finally he starts to thrust. His stomach is fitted perfectly into Stan's back like a puzzle piece, giving him the perfect base to lean against as he ruts forward against his brother.   
  
"Stanley," he moans against his neck, his free hand finding Stan's on the shower wall and linking their fingers together as his forehead rests against his shoulder. "Oh fuck, Stanley..."  
  
Stan lays his cheek flat on the wall, water pelting down on he and Ford's backs. The wet slap of their skin fills the air between their heavy draws of breath. Stan's got that one arm slung around behind him, fingers digging into Ford's hip, the other braced on the wall as he takes all that Ford has to give.   
  
"Sixer...fuck. You're--!" Whatever Stan was going to say is drowned by pleasure, his eyes rolling back, head thumping forward against the wall. His short hair is stuck to his forehead, whole body soft but rigid, jumping up with every thrust that Ford delivers, unable to speak he can only grunt and groan when his prostate is assaulted by Ford's cock.  
  
Ford releases Stan's hand to instead wind around his chest, his fingers sinking firmly into Stan's soft pec until it hits hard muscle beneath, his other hand still flying over his brother's cock as he moans into his ear. He grunts lowly with every thrust, pleasure consuming his entire body.   
  
His thrusts shake another belch out of him that he stifles against Stan's shoulder, his heavy stomach grinding into the larger man's back with every hard pound of skin against skin.   
  
"Don't be quiet," Ford orders with a low moan. "I want to hear you, Stanley-- let me hear you."  
  
Stan's face comes up from where he'd ducked down between his shoulders, now cherry red from his beard to his ears, and he throws his head back to shout, "Stanford! Sweet Moses! Don't stop!"   
  
Ford grinds in to the base, fit snugly up against his prostate, pulls out and rams back in. Stan swears he can feel him all the way up to his tonsils, until the shower feels too hot and Ford feels heavy on top of him, but it's a good kind of overstimulation that has Stan panting and yelling, sobbing into his own arms as he releases Ford's hip and braces himself on the wall. As expected, his legs are shaking, but he holds steadfast anyways.   
  
"I'm close--don't stop!" He repeats, driving home the point. "Please don't stop, Stanford!"  
  
Ford finds that Stan's voice, wrecked with pleasure, is almost better than the vice grip of his hole as he nails it to the wall. He sinks his teeth into Stan's shoulder to keep from shouting out loud so he can listen to Stan's words instead, spilling out of him in strings of heated, frantic nonsense.   
  
He switches tactics, grinding in almost to the base where he knows Stan's prostate is, and then hammers it in shallow, quick little thrusts that don't quite have skin connecting with skin, but nevertheless floods Stan with so much pleasure that his legs nearly give out completely, and Ford's hand on his cock also relocates to match, twisting roughly around just the head.   
  
"Cum, Stanley," Ford orders plainly, his voice a low, commanding baritone.  
  
Stan grabs him again, presses him tight against him by the hip once more until he's buried so deep inside that Stan can feel nothing else but the heated pulse of Ford's shallow thrusts, and the grate of Ford's commanding voice is his final undoing. Stan's cock spatters the wall of the shower and he calls out in one long, strangled cry, his body fluttering and tugging against Ford's cock as Stan tries to reconcile the intensity of the orgasm, but he can't and he just cums and shouts until he's hoarse and has nothing left.   
  
Slumping against the wall, Stan's shaky hands let go of him and he braces himself on the shower so he doesn't fall, shaking and breathing hard while Ford fucks him through the aftershocks.  
  
Ford chases him just a few short thrusts later, but rather than cum inside, he pulls out and tugs himself just once before he unloads over Stan's lower back and cheeks, a sight which makes Ford's bloated belly do flip-flops. He groans and releases his softening prick, grinding it playfully against Stan's crack, his hands on his hips.   
  
"Mmm... I love you Stanley," he murmurs, a surprisingly affectionate tone in his voice considering the fact that he's lazily hotdogging Stan's ass.  
  
"I love you too, Stanford." Stan grunts, with equal affection past the gruff of his voice. "And I'll never question your appetite again--but I might ask for an encore sometime."  
  
Ford just laughs, peppering kisses across Stan's shoulder. "Don't hold your breath."


End file.
